Two Sisters
by DaeDreemer
Summary: S1. Post 1.16. BE. The morning after, Blair goes to see Eric. Because there are some things she can't afford either.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Gossip Girl."

**Author's Note:** I know, I have WiP's to finish. :-\ I'm working on them. But this popped into my head and I'm not good at ignoring Eric. :P In the S1 deleted scenes we got this sort of talk between SE, it was lovely, and I would have loved for it to not have been deleted. *sigh*

Anywho, here's BE, set S1, between 1.16 and 1.17.

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy. :]

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He's reaching out to push the button for the elevator when the doors open in front of him.

And Blair Waldorf walks through them.

He starts, wasn't expecting her. She's wearing a simple pale green blouse paired with a tan, straight skirt and tan heels; and she looks oddly fretful.

He greets her brightly, says, "Blair…! Hey!"

She draws in a deep breath and smiles, a touch warily, at him, "Hi, E."

He holds the elevator doors open with his hand and offers her a quick smile as he tells her, "You know, I don't think Serena's in right now… you should text her, 'cause I've no clue where she—"

"Oh that's fine—" she interrupts him, "I actually— I wanted to talk to you… if you have a minute…?"

He stiffens a little, still doesn't let the doors close because he can only think of one thing he and Blair would have to talk about at this hour on a Saturday morning, last night—so he would rather not. "Oh… um… well, I was just… leaving… my Mom wants me… to uh… go…"

She's not arguing with him or interrupting him, but her gaze shifts somehow; turns darker, pleading almost, and he blinks, finds himself saying, "… but I could… put it off," instead of leaving and removes his hand from the elevator doors, "… I guess, for a minute…"

She nods at him and he continues quickly, "But if this is about last night, then, I don't think there's really anything to talk about— I mean, thanks for not sending those pictures and stuff out until I wanted—well, needed them sent out, but otherwise, there's really nothing—"

"No, it's not about last night," she interrupts his rambling sentence, "Not exactly…"

He blinks at her. "Oh… um, okay then…" he waves her in, towards the living room, "You wanna…?"

She nods; walks slowly and perches at the very edge of one end of the sofa, Eric sits at the other end. They're completely silent then and Eric feels uncomfortable in a way he's never really felt around Blair. Then again he hasn't spent all that much time with her in the past year… still, he thinks, this awkward silence is a touch ridiculous.

"You really think I'd do that?" She asks when the silence is just a breath from being unbearable.

He releases a breath; feels relieved first, at the sound speaking and then confused at the question, "Do what?"

"You think I would have sent those pictures?"

_Oh. _He stares at her, wants to say _of course not_ and brush it off; but there's been a lot of honesty in the last 24 hours and he doesn't want to be the one to break the streak. "I don't think so, no," he tells her, "But I don't really know what Serena's friends are about anymore, so—"

She winces as he speaks and he realizes a second too late how that sounds; shakes his head, "Not that you and I aren't—"

"I wouldn't have," she says firmly.

And he shuts his mouth; because really it's all a moot point anyway. "You didn't," he replies just as firmly.

She nods and falls silent again.

"Did you want to talk about what's up with Serena?" He wonders; because he's noticed something _is_ up with his sister so he's certain Blair has too.

But she shakes her head _no_ at him and draws in a deep breath.

He bites his lip, "Blair—if you want me to do something or help you with something, you can just say it," he offers her with a small smile; because he really can't think of what else they have to talk about. "I owe you one and—"

And abruptly then, without an ounce of warning, tears fill her eyes, "I'm sorry."

Eric jumps at the words, at the tears, shifts closer to her as he feels his eyes go wide, "Hey! Whoa— for what!? Blair—! Don't— don't cry!" He knows he sounds a little panicked, but tears from Blair are rare enough that it's allowed.

She nods, draws in a shuddering breath this time and tries to blink them back as she continues, "I should've—"

And he reaches out and touches her arm, "There was nothing that happened last night that you have to apologize for," he tells her earnestly, "You were protecting me…" he says softly and the truth of that leaches away any wisps of awkwardness he feels; because that was something that hadn't changed since the last time he'd spent time with Blair— that has remained a constant.

He pulls up another smile for her, when the tears remain in her big brown eyes; rubs at her forearm a little as he says, "Really— you've never done anything to apologize for to me!" He's trying for lightness in his tone when adds, "I mean if this is a practice run for you and Serena or something that's another thing, but with me you've never—"

She shakes her head before he can finish, reaches out for him and takes the hand he has on her arm; turns it over and lays her other hand across his wrist, over his scar; faint now, not there unless you look for it.

And he stills; the gesture impossible to misinterpret.

"I'm sorry," she repeats.

And he gets it now, starts to pull away.

Her grip tightens.

He shakes his head at her, feels shutters going up inside him and can't stop them, "No. Don't— Blair— that wasn't—" he cuts himself off, swallows hard, stares at her and wonders where this came from; why. "You don't have to—"

Her grip on his wrist tightens another bit, "You were my little brother too."

And just like that, she blows right through the shutters; because she's right.

Blair had helped him with homework as much, if not more, than Serena had; had tucked him into bed and let him draw in her notebooks, as long as it was in the back, as many times as Serena; had laughed when he had climbed into bed with her and Serena rather than staying in 'his' room down the hall and had tickled him when he'd shown her how Serena had taught him to color outside the lines; she'd held his hand when they crossed a street and told him never to talk to people who wore jeans with sneakers—or strangers, either.

His throat feels tight when he says, "Blair… it wasn't your fau—"

"Come on Eric," she interrupts, voice soft, sadly knowing as she forces herself to blink the tears away, "Maybe it wasn't my fault… but I'm not blameless."

He looks away; he doesn't know what to say— still doesn't want to break the honesty streak.

"It was like… like I left too, wasn't it?" She whispers, "Like I'd taken off just like S."

He doesn't have to answer her, Blair knows.

"I'm sorry," she repeats again, the words wobbly this time, "I should have… been a— a better sister."

He looks back at her then. She's watching him steadily; waiting for his reaction, his response…

He could still remember being five years old having Blair comb his hair one last time, straighten his little collar, tie his shoes with double knots and then nod once, _okay you may go to kindergarten now _before taking his hand walking him over to where Serena was skipping rope, observed by whatever Nanny was in current residence. Blair had always compared his nannies with her own Dorota—and so found each and every one lacking.

He shrugs a little, releases a deep breath and speaks carefully, because they're both treading deep waters here, "You were busy," he offers quietly— which she had been; she'd had trauma of her own to deal with, "Not a good time for you either."

Her gaze hardens, but he knows it's not directed at him. "I was neglectful and petty and should have…" she trails off for a beat, enough he's sure, to replay countless scenes from their childhood, "Should have taken care of you…" she finishes.

He doesn't think about it, says, "It's okay, Blair," without hesitation, absolving her; not necessarily because it really is, but because he'll never lay that at her feet.

"It's _not _okay, Eric," she insists with that heat that is Blair Waldorf. Because she _has _thought about it.

"_I'm _okay," he insists back; and _that_ is the truth.

She nods at him, but doesn't look any more convinced; and he wonders again, where this came from. She continues, "I know— probably more than the rest of—" she cuts herself off, shakes her head, "But I still—"

He sighs, interrupting her, tugging at his wrist again; but she isn't letting go, "You're not responsible for me, okay."

And that slips out a touch harsher than he meant it to. He shakes his head, "No, I don't mean— I mean that I don't think you—"

"God E, you know I am. You know you that you're—"

He sighs again, roughly this time because he suddenly doesn't want to do this anymore, talk about this. Not the day after he's come-out to the entire Upper East Side—because he's certain every teen has told their parents by now and those parents have spread the word in that perfectly coordinated stream of gossip their world feeds on.

"_Stop_ it, Blair! Okay, _stop_," he snaps at her.

And she does.

He blinks, blows out a breath, "I know that you think—" he pauses, rewords, "That maybe in a way—" again he pauses, starts over, "We're family, I know that," he finishes steadily; surprising even himself with how completely certain he is of that.

"But I…" he trails off, drops his gaze from hers for a moment, before drawing in a deep breath and pressing on, "I wasn't going to— your Dad had just run off with Roman. I'm pretty sure the last thing you wanted to hear from me was that I thought maybe I was gay."

Her eyes flash fire as her grip tightens on his wrist so much it's painful. He winces, is trying frantically to remember why he'd been so certain when she speaks, "Don't you _ever _be sure of what I want to hear from you again, Eric Van der Woodsen."

And his eyes widen a little, because that's the Queen B tone, icy and _don't-mess-with-me, _and he's not heard it directed at him often— maybe ever.

She's staring at him intensely and he realizes then that she's waiting for a response. "O—okay," he stammers a little, looking into her brown eyes.

She holds his gaze for another beat, as if to make sure he means it, and then her grip finally loosens. He whips his arm away from her as she nods slowly, brings her hand down to fold it with the other on her lap.

She looks away from him then, says softly, "I was home last night… and after Jenny left, I was thinking about—"

"You saw Jenny?!" It's an almost squeak and he feels himself flush a little; but he's not quite prepared to bat around the blonde's name that casually.

Blair nods, still doesn't look at him. "She came to me, waved the white flag… I win," she says dully, her dark eyes fixed on the carpet under their feet.

And Eric wonders what that means—_winning_, in this game they play; if it's anything at all.

"She couldn't afford the price you have to pay," Blair continues, "To win," her eyes lift then, meet Eric's, "There's a price to pay," she says; and he knows she hears the echo of those words often.

He licks his lips and nods at her, says gently, "I know." And he does; knows _honesty_ really is nothing more than a streak in their world-- and it always runs out. There's an entire host of things that get left behind to become a _Blair Waldorf _of the world or a _Lily Van der Woodsen _or hell, even a _Serena Van der Woodsen _as seemingly unhindered as she appears to be. And he sees that now, has for months and months…

"And it's—" Blair pauses, he can see her reword the way he had, her gaze still heavy against his face, "_She_ certainly doesn't know this… but there are things… I can't afford either…"

Eric stares at her, blinks in surprise at the quiet words, the meaning behind them, the way she's tied herself all into knots to say them.

"And when you—" she motions towards his wrists then, but doesn't look away from his face, "When you told me about— when you showed me—"

He cringes a tiny bit at the memory of that afternoon; he'd been mad at her, she'd been vicious with Serena, and he'd rubbed the evidence of her mistaken judgment in her face. "Blair—" he interrupts.

"— I didn't think about it," she presses on with barely a pause, "Because I—" she gives a tiny shrug, "Didn't want to. I just _didn't_. And then last night…" she trails off, they don't need to rehash last night. Instead she reaches out slowly to touch his arm, gently this time, as she says in one breath, "And so today… I wanted you to know that I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me to be and that—you're one of the things I can't— can't afford..." the _to lose _is implicit and she presses on, "So it— it's not going to happen again."

It's less startling to hear the second time around and it washes him with a warmth he can't keep out of his eyes, out of the smile he gives her.

Blair looks away then, ducks her a little, and his smile stretches a tiny bit more as he lays a hand over the one she has on his arm and whispers, like the stage secret it is, "I love you too, B."

She starts a little, like somehow she wasn't expecting that response, and her gaze flies back to his face.

"And you know," he continues, "You coulda just _told_ me that without _bruising _me," he complains good-naturedly, lifting his hand and motioning towards the arm she'd gripped earlier with a half-grin.

She stares at him for a long moment. So long his smile starts to slip.

And just when he's going to tell her again that it's okay, that he would really rather _not _sit here and examine his attempted suicide with her, with _anyone, _that he's doing a fairly good job of not looking back there and wants to keep it that way, she smirks at him— small and affectionate and completely understanding, like she heard everyone one of his thoughts.

She shifts on the sofa, leans back on the armrest; her hands fluttering around her a bit as she tilts her chin upwards and tosses her hair back, "Just making sure it sticks, E," she says, wryly, waves a hand in the air, "Memorization is key."

He gives a breathy laugh, relaxes back against the sofa as he remembers being seven-years-old and Blair's serious dark eyes, _you can't just know how to do it, E, you have memorize them, _as she helped him with his multiplication tables. "Oh it's stuck," he concedes with a half-roll of his eyes.

She nods at him; satisfied and reassured.

And he grins at her; because he's always had two sisters— one who taught him how to color outside the lines and another who held his hand when they crossed the street.

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**.Fin.**

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End file.
